


In the company of fire

by Ghelik



Series: Life after the Mountain [12]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, John Not Coping, Murphy needs a hug, Murphy-centric, Post-Mount Weather, Post-Season/Series 02, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy still remembers the first time he saw fire. It was breathtakingly beautiful. When the flame was put out he felt a great sense of loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the company of fire

**Author's Note:**

> As always this was unbetad. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting.

"What do you mean I am not in the gathering-group anymore?"

  
Bryan shuffles his feet, looking anywhere but at Murphy who stands in front of him, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

  
"The med-bay cleared me for work," argues the former thief.

  
Bryan forces his eyes to stay on Murphy: he’s thinner and paler than he was before he was taken by Azgeda; his cheeks look hollow, bringing his too big purple-rimmed eyes into sharp relief.

  
"I asked Bellamy to take you off the gathering-group."

  
Murphy starts like he’s been slapped, he swallows twice, breathing deep through his nose. Then he blinks, and his face closes off, a nasty smirk on his lips.

  
"Of course."

  
He turns to go, and Bryan sighs. He likes Murphy and doesn’t want him to feel like he’s done something wrong or anything. Stepping forward after him his hand lands on Murphy’s shoulder.

  
"Murphy…"

  
The young man freezes, Bryan can feel him tensing so much he nearly vibrates.  
  


"Touch me again, and I’ll end you," he growls.

  
Murphy walks away, forcing his back to stay straight, hands shoved in his pockets playing with the loose strings and small stones he has there. He saunters about like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  
What else did he expect, really? None of these people can be trusted.

  
He storms into his tent, but it’s empty – Emori’s at Ravens’  workshop by now.

  
Murphy paces taking deep gulping breaths to try and calm his racing heart. He can feel anger humming right under his skin, beckoning him and knows he can't let it loose. He needs to think. Has to be clever about this. It’s important. Staying in Droptwo is the smart choice. So he pushes the anger away and tries to think.

  
Why has he been kicked out?

  
Murphy was a good gatherer - they would have kicked him out ages ago if he wasn't. The only failing he’s had is getting himself captured. So it has to be a way of punishing him for failing at pulling his own weight. The Commander settled the problems with Azgeda, but…

  
' _But now you’re a liability_ ,' whispers a voice in his ear that sounds eerily like Ontari. 'You’ve proven to be unable to defend yourself. You’re weak.'

  
His knees buckle under him, there’s a lump in his throat, and he has to swallow convulsively when it threatens to choke him. All his scars throb in time with his pounding heartbeat. He feels like crying but fights down the tears.

  
Murphy lets himself fall on the cot.  
  


The anger still burns beneath his skin, mixing with the fear.

 

 Murphy clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. He wants to tear everything down, wants to burn Droptwo to the ground: feel the warm glow of the flames on his skin and know he’s put them there. Conjuring that image is ridiculously easy, holding it in his mind’s eye and turning it around and around until it’s nearly real.

  
Fire has always fascinated him. On the Ark fire was hard to come by; here it’s everywhere, and it never fails to fill him with a sort of primal joy.

  
Murphy still remembers the first time he saw a flame: he was seven and at school. The teacher had half a candlestick and was telling them about fire. How dangerous it was, how it burned the oxygen and was therefore forbidden on the Ark. The teacher warned them all about burns and heat and smoke and what not.

  
"As a treat, we can light this candle for a few minutes," she had said and they all watched as she lit the flame. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

 

Murphy was the first to step forward. He put his hand to the flame without even noticing. When it was put out, he felt a great sense of loss.

  
That Saturday he had tracked down a candlestick at the exchange. It was shorter than his thumb and extremely overpriced. Murphy gave his good jacket for it and hid it in his bunk. It was nice having the candlestick, even if he could only light it a few times a year and only for a few moments.

  
Murphy lit the candle when his father was floated. The fire was warm and bright and looked like a tiny star in his hand. It burned into his eyes so he could see it after it was off when he closed his eyes. After his mother died, he lit it every day until the little flame went out and there was nothing left to light.

  
When he realized he had lost even that, the sense of loss mixed with a sudden and unquenchable anger, fuelling it until he had a gaping burning need inside him.

  
Murphy remembers the flames on the guards’ quarters like an incredible, fascinating wall. If he had run away maybe they wouldn’t have caught him – he was stupid back then – but the fire was enthralling. It was the first time in his life that fire wasn’t a tiny star in his hand, but a blazing sun threatening to devour him. There was so much of it…

  
He had breathed in the flames, felt them like a caress, like a warm embrace and felt safe and home.

  
In his mind, he can see Droptwo engulfed in flames. All of it: the longhouse, the tents and the houses even the metallic structures and the rests of the Ark beyond that.

  
His heart beats hard against his ribs, not in fear but in wonder. That would be beautiful.

  
Murphy takes a long steadying breath in through the nose.

  
No. That is most definitively not a smart move. He pushes the angry-angry part of him back into its box. 

 

He needs to be a survivor.

  
Stepping out of the tent he’s strangely disoriented. He’s never been inside Droptwo at this time.

  
What is he supposed to do?

  
He can’t sit idly on his butt all day.  
  


Pushing his hands back deep into the pockets of his jacket he waltzes over to Raven's workshop, letting himself in like he owns the place and promptly stopping dead in his tracks.

  
Raven and Emori sit together at one of the workbenches, both laughing, bent over something small on the table in front of them. Emori’s face is open and happy, there are tears on her cheeks from laughing so hard and he feels a sudden pang of dread.

  
He’s the odd one out. He’s the one who’s gotten himself kicked out of the gathering group. The one without a job; the one who’s been kidnapped – again; the one who can’t sleep at night; and the one who has nightmares every other day; who jumps at loud noises and has to fight with himself not to be jittery and fidgety.

  
Murphy steps slowly out of the workshop and onto the street. Looks around trying to decide and starts walking towards… somewhere.

  
"Murphy!"

  
He tries not to roll his eyes, schools his face into an annoyed frown before turning towards their Grand Leader.

  
Since his return people have been acting weird around him. Raven throws random stuff at him – which he’s decided to interpret as her way of showing that she cares, or something – Miller and Octavia appear out of the blue, him looking sad or uncomfortable and her speaking aggressively like he’s an idiot whose existence personally offends her. Clarke and Bellamy are constantly dropping by to make sure he’s fine – which always leaves him disconcerted and with a warm glow deep in his belly he’s not going to analyze too closely.

  
"Yeah?"

  
"You’re needed in the kitchens."  
  


He raises his eyebrows and Bellamy continues, arms crossed across his chest and his permanent Leader Scowl on.  
  


"Daisy broke her hand the other day, and they’re understaffed."

  
And with that, he turns on his heel and marches off to god knows where probably to make out with Clarke – if they’ve managed to get their heads out of the dirt long enough to articulate their undying love for each other.

  
Murphy bites the tip of his tongue. For half a second he thinks about not going just to be contrary. Then he makes his way to the kitchens instead.  
  


The Kitchens is just a glorified building attached to the Long House where most of their meals are prepared.

 

 It has three doors: one that opens to the Long House, one that leads to the pantry which has been dug underground and that’s closed by a heavy-duty padlock and third that leads to the smokehouse and the pen with the goats they share with Arkadia proper. 

 

Three of the four walls are wood, against the stone wall lean two sturdy heavy and terribly unorganized cabinets full of pots and plates and silverware and a hollowed out log that passes as washing basin. Every single wall is covered by at least three fingers of grease and the low ceiling leaks in a few places – which is the reason why there are buckets all over the floor, threatening to trip everyone. Since the roof is too low and there are no windows, the kitchens are poorly ventilated and hot, smoke hanging low and making everything foggy and stuff. 

 

It is equipped with four independent stoves fuelled by wood they have to go fetch every twenty minutes or so, and a lot of tables and flat surfaces covered in random ingredients, knives, and pans.

  
The kitchens are run by Lola, a twenty-something-year-old who lost both her parents during the Ark’s Crash and came to live to Droptwo as soon as it was founded. She wears her hair always in a tight bun at the back of her head, which only helps in accentuating her resemblance to one of those cartoon drawings of owls: with eyes too big – made even bigger by the crooked glasses – and small narrow nose and mouth. Murphy’s never actually talked to her before but has heard she’s a ruthless boss who runs a very tight ship. Apparently, Lola is one of Octavia’s best friends inside of Droptwo, which only speaks in favor of her ruthlessness.

  
Lola spots him as soon as he puts a foot into the organized chaos of the kitchen.  
  


"You!" she barks way louder than her thin frame should be able to, and he _does not_ flinch. "What are you doing here?"

  
He plasters a smile on his face.  
  


"Bellamy told me to come. Said you needed some help."

  
Lola blinks at him for a moment through her thick glasses.

  
"You’re John Murphy?"

  
"Yeah."

  
She pulls the glasses down, looking him up and down. And then puts them back on and does it again. Murphy fists his hands in his pockets and remains the epitome of calm.

  
"Hmm…" she makes after a moment. "You’re not at all like I pictured," and it sounds like an accusation.

  
He shrugs, smile staying in place.  
  


"I get that a lot."

  
"All right then. Bellamy said you knew your way around a kitchen. So man the stove," she turns around to shout at her minions. "We need to finish preparing lunch, and we need to have it done by yesterday!"

  
And just like that, he’s swept into an interminable cycle of stirring food around, chopping vegetables and fetching wood and cleaning pans.

  
It’s like cooking in his little back-yard-kitchen –even if he hasn’t done that in like two months - the motions all feel the same and at the same time very different. He’s constantly disconcerted when he goes to grab this or that plant, and it’s not there because for these people food’s just a necessity and a boring job.

  
He’s on the same shift as Andrea, an older woman around fifty with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes and an unassuming smile, and Matthew, who is overly possessive of his pan and his stove and doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘spicing.' The kitchen is severely undermanned even when about an hour before noon Rebecca and Bear come to help set up the tables and hand out lunch.

  
Since he’s the new guy, he’s on cleaning duty, running after everybody and collecting the plates back, scrubbing the tables and organizing the chairs and benches. It’s late afternoon when he’s dismissed, the second shift starts preparing dinner and cleaning the mountain of dirty silverware and plates.

  
By then he’s bone tired and sweating like a pig because he doesn’t like the idea of walking around without his jacket. The scars from Azgeda’s tender care are still very red and very visible and, even though Murphy’s not incredibly vain, he really doesn’t like it when people stare at them.

  
Andrea leaves patting his cheek. Her smile is full of gaping black holes where she’s lost a shit load of teeth. It’s kind of unnerving.

  
"You should find yourself a lighter shirt for tomorrow," she says lisping a little.

  
"Or lose it completely," adds Matthew putting his shirt back on and clearly enjoying the not-so-subtle stares of a few of the girls near the door.

  
Lola saves him from having to answer by appearing next to him and shooing Andrea and Matthew away with her unblinking stare – which isn’t really mean, but somehow kind of freaky.

  
"You’re not as bad a worker as I feared. I expect you here tomorrow. Six o’clock."

  
Murphy isn’t sure how he manages to make it all the way to Raven’s workshop, but even though everything hurts he feels slightly better than he did this morning.

  
Emori kisses him deep and passionate when she sees him, not giving a fuck that Raven’s there and making gagging sounds.

  
Emori has been a fixture on his side: hugging him at every opportunity, kissing him in front of everybody and threading their fingers together whenever they walk together. It’s somehow scary how much she touches him and how much her eyes sadden whenever she thinks he isn’t looking. It feels like a goodbye, and he’s secretly terrified that he’s going to wake up one morning and she won’t be there anymore.

  
It’s earlier than usual, but Raven dismisses them throwing a wrench at Murphy’s head and missing by half a foot.

  
They make their way to their tent hand in hand.  
  


He tells her about his conversation with Bryan that morning and being assigned to the kitchens. Tries to be nonchalant about it, most definitively does not tell her about the momentary despair and the dark thoughts that crossed his mind. It’s not like he needs to get out of Droptwo or as if he liked being part of the gathering-party or even wanted the job. It’s no loss at all.

  
Emori strips off her jacket and the glove on her hand, flexing the fingers and rolling her shoulders. Murphy drags her to the cot, sitting her in front of him and kneading at the juncture of shoulder and neck.

  
She’s tense as a wire  
  


"Do you like the job at the kitchens?"

  
"Yeah. It’s fine."

  
Emori seems to melt against his hands. They’re quiet for a moment  
  


"I am glad…," she starts and shakes her head turning to him, taking his hands in hers. "I am glad you’re not in the gathering group anymore."

  
Emori can’t look him in the eye, and he feels a sudden surge of anger, all the pieces falling into place.  
  


"Did you have anything to do with it?"

  
She swallows, and it’s as good as an admission.  
  


It feels like that time with the little Charlotte who murdered Jaha Jr. when he told Bellamy he was innocent and he turned away.

  
When Emori tries to grab his arm, he flinches, stumbling back.  
  


"I see."

  
He wishes she had just left. This… This is betrayal, and it burns and eats at his entrails.

  
At least when Ontari wanted him to be somewhere, she used a chain he could see and hate.  
  


"No, you don’t," Emori’s voice is soft, which makes it even worse.

  
Murphy can’t stand to look at her, because she’s scarred like Ontari, and has taken from him like she did. The gathering-group might not have been much of anything – he might not have been well liked or even really been part of it, but it was his.

  
He turns to the small stand where their bags hang and starts collecting his meager possessions.

  
"Where are you going?"

  
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I don’t need you all mothering me like I am about to break."

  
"It’s not like that, John…"

  
"MY NAME IS MURPHY!" he shouts in her face, and she starts, jumping back, with wide eyes. There’s a bit of spit on her cheek, right beneath the scar across the tattoo.

  
Murphy runs before he can brush it off.

  
He hears Emori calling after him when he leaves, slipping out of Droptwo through Ravens Gate. Nobody stops him, and he’s free to run. Run. Run. Run. Mind blank except for the clap, clap, clap of his boots on the dirt. He’s not sure where he’s running to until he stops at the top of Charlotte’s Cliff.

  
Panting and nearly doubled over, Murphy looks down, the usual sense of dizziness settling over him. It’s a big drop.

  
It’s nearly poetic how he’s landed himself here like that night after the first betrayal. Bellamy had beaten him up, screaming that he deserved to die after the little murderer had committed suicide. Looking back at that moment Murphy still doesn’t see her death as the childhood sacrifice he knows eats away at Bellamy and Clarke. She deserved it: she killed someone and got caught. She had to pay for it. Her death doesn’t soothe the betrayal of that night.

  
He steps away from the edge.  
  


From here it’s not hard to find his way back to his old hideout, that place where, for a few weeks, he was his own man. He hadn’t been terrified of anything back then. The Grounders where some faceless, undefined threat, there was no mountain to be wary, no clans, no reapers...

  
His hideout had been an automobile back before the bombs and time dug it into the earth. He had made his sleeping area in the backseat, kicked at the steering wheel and the backs of the front seats until they came loose and he could throw them away. On the back, there’s still his small nest of dried leaves and his old jacket with the red spiky patch on the shoulder he sewed there himself.

  
"Home, sweet home."

  
Murphy lets himself into the old car, dropping in through the broken window and burrowing into his nest.

  
He’s better of now. He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, doesn’t need them. Any of them.

  
He has to move when the hard, spiky part of his old jacket digs uncomfortably in his cheek. There are a small nearly empty matchbox and a candle stump there. He had found it in the car’s dash, the smell of it almost intoxicating.

  
He lights one of the small rickety match eyes fixed on the little flame as it burst to life, puts it to the candle and watches as the candle fizzles to life. The fire dances in his hands, warming them until it’s nearly painful, but not really.

  
The fire is as beautiful as always. Bright as the stars he could see through the windows in the Ark, Murphy has never felt alone with the tiny star in his hands, and now it does the trick again. Warm like Moonshine burning its way to his stomach, like arms around him or the safety of a blanket over his body.

  
He feels himself smiling at the tiny flame.  
  


He’s better off now, he knows.


End file.
